


Blessings

by avantegarda



Series: It's the New World, Darling-A 19th-20th Century AU [17]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Gen, Ireland, have some child-related sappiness, nerdanel makes the first move because she is the cool one in this couple, please also accept some wedding-related drama, pride and prejudice feat. potato famine, the kids are here and they are smol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-02-04 20:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18611920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avantegarda/pseuds/avantegarda
Summary: Every family has its history. This is theirs.





	1. May There Always Be Work For Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Writing romantic whatnot to cheer myself up, what else is new. 
> 
> (All chapter titles come from assorted Irish blessings because why would they not)
> 
> This piece is going to be VERY loosely structured so if there's anything you'd like to see in it, drop me a line and let me know!

_ Kilhenny, Ireland _

_ 1859 _

 

That my father was taking on a new apprentice was no surprise; everyone knew Mahtan O’Malley was the finest craftsman in the county, and boys came from all over Ireland to study with him. Indeed, it was often said that a year with Da gave a lad more of an education than a decade at a university.

And so there was nothing surprising, as I say, in Da taking on a new apprentice. What was surprising was that he was English.

“ _ English?”  _ I exclaimed, when Da told my mother and I the news at dinner. “Saints alive, Da, you’re going to be teaching a blasted  _ Pom?” _

“Language, Nellie,” Da admonished me. “He’s not just any Englishman, he’s Finwë Gates’ son. The chap who owns all the gem mines. I’ve struck a deal with him to produce a line of jewelry that’ll be sold in all the London shops. Bringing industry back to this village, he is.”

“And part of the deal with Mr. Gates is that you need to serve as nursemaid to his useless son for a year? Why is he so keen to come here anyway?

“Apparently he’s eager to learn the practical side of the family business. And his father’s letters don’t make him sound useless—only eighteen and he’s already spent three years at Oxford!”

“Oxford?” I rolled my eyes. “He sounds unbearably posh, Da. Sure, he’ll be sending his shirts back to London to be laundered because we won’t do it properly, and he’ll complain every time he gets his nose dirty.”

“Don’t be prejudiced now, dear,” said Mam. “We don’t know this lad, but he’s here to learn, and he’ll be treated like anyone else. You needn’t become his dearest friend, but I expect you to treat him with courtesy regardless of what he does with his shirts.”

I shook my head skeptically. “If you insist. But if he treats me like a servant I reserve the right to throw him into the river. What’s his name, then?”

“You’ll be pleased to hear he’s not one of those Johns or Georges, he’s got an easy name to remember,” Da said. “Quite an unusual name, as it happens, I’ll have to remember to ask him its origin. He’s called Fëanor Gates.”

 

I wasn’t terribly impressed with Fëanor Gates, when he showed up at our door in September, dragging a monogrammed trunk filled with books and wearing a suit fine enough for a duke. Oh, he was very well-spoken, and quite good-looking as well—slightly taller than me (no mean feat), and wide-shouldered and dark-haired—but there was something in his eyes and manner that unsettled me.  _ English arrogance,  _ I told myself firmly, and resolved to think no more on it.

We lay on quite a feast for him that night, or as much of one as we could muster, considering that food was still not as plentiful in the county as it should have been. Still, our kitchen garden had produced enough that we could feed our new guest ( _ apprentice,  _ I reminded myself, not guest) well enough. Fëanor certainly seemed to enjoy the meal, though he ate sparingly, saying that he needed very little to keep him satisfied. 

The conversation soon turned to his father, Finwë Gates, and the ruby and emerald mines the great man owned in South America. Uninterested in the topic, I found myself gazing at Fëanor absentmindedly, noting that he had a small burn scar on his right cheekbone and that his hair was left slightly too long for the fashion. As he talked, he pulled something out of his pocket and toyed with it nervously—a heavy silver pocket-watch, engraved with an eight-pointed star surrounded by laurel leaves. Seeing me looking at it, he smiled and quickly put it away.

“Miss Nerdanel, tell me something of yourself,” he said. “Are you a blacksmith, as your father is?”

Was he teasing me? I’d often been laughed at for having a smith’s build, far too sturdy and muscular for a girl, and my two elder sisters (both beautiful, both married) had thought it funny to refer to me as their “little brother.” Fortunately, Da stepped in before I could formulate a harsh retort. “Our Nell is an artist, as it happens,” he said proudly. “A sculptor, in particular. We call her our Michelangelo.”

“Then am I to assume that beautiful statue of Saint Theresa in the sitting room is her work?” He looked at me with interest. “You have a gift, Miss O’Malley. Not everyone can make stone look that lifelike.”

“Thank you.” I turned back to my meal quickly, not wishing to accept any more compliments from this strange boy, with his bright silver eyes and clipped accent. If he was flattering me for the sport of it, he would get no encouragement from me.

Fëanor turned away from me then, returning to his conversation with my parents, though occasionally I would glance over at him and still see that bright gaze upon me, as though he was trying to see into my soul.

 

The new apprentice had a tendency to find me in odd places, I noticed as he settled in. My father kept him busy, of course, frequently telling my mother he’d never had an apprentice with such enthusiasm, but in his spare moments Fëanor would wander into the garden while I was weeding and ask me probing questions about the state of the soil, or would follow me into our small library and attempt to strike up a conversation about the works of Jane Austen. I answered him curtly, if at all...shameful as it is to say, I was determined to hate him! Besides, I could see no reason for his desire to talk to me, other than making a nuisance of himself.

I had hoped that the small garden shed that Da had given over to me to use as a studio would be off-limits to Fëanor, and yet he wandered in one afternoon, not bothering to knock. 

“I was hoping to see inside this place eventually,” Fëanor said conversationally, running his fingers across a block of granite. “I’ve always been intrigued by the inner workings of an artist’s studio.”

“It’s very humble, I’m afraid,” I said. “Nothing of particular interest to you, I should think.”

“On the contrary, I find it quite fascinating. Your passion for your work is admirable.” He looked at me, frowning slightly. “Miss O’Malley, have I done something to offend you?”

“Not in the slightest, Master Gates. You have been, overall, a fine guest.”

“Then why do I sense waves of hostility coming from you whenever we are in the same room?”

“Fine,” I said with annoyance, pounding the clay roughly. “If you must know, I dislike having an Englishman about the house.”

Fëanor looked genuinely shocked. “Is that it? Why should my nationality bother you so?”

“Perhaps you weren’t aware of this, but Ireland went through quite a bad famine not so very long ago. No help came to us from London, not even when so many of our friends and neighbors were close to starving.”

“But you did not starve,” he said, gazing at me unblinkingly. “Nor did you emigrate.”

“No, we did not. We had enough to keep us comfortable and to help the rest of the village. But I was a child at the time, witnessing so much suffering, and prejudices formed in childhood are difficult to break oneself of.”

“I see.” He took a step closer, still not breaking eye contact. “Does it help you to know, Miss Nerdanel, that I have very little love for the English government, nor indeed for Her Majesty the Queen?”

“Perhaps a bit,” I replied. “Though you shouldn’t speak like that of Her Majesty. Many people here still love her greatly.”

“I think I only have it in me to serve one queen,” Fëanor said thoughtfully. “And I don’t think it’s going to be her.”

 

At the end of October of that year we had one of those rare, glorious late-autumn days where the very grass seemed to blaze with light. I had completed my chores for the morning with great haste, and with a sigh my mother dismissed me, knowing that I would be useless to her until I had managed to turn nature into art. 

Sketchpad and pencil in hand, I raced down to the creek, and was soon caught up in trying to capture a perfect view of the flowers that grew next to it. So absorbed was I in my work that I didn’t notice Fëanor Gates standing behind me until he cleared his throat, making me jump.

“May I help you, Master Gates?” I asked, trying to keep the annoyance from my voice.

“Oh, no,” Fëanor said. “I’m merely enjoying the unseasonably fine weather. As you yourself are, it seems.”

“Aye,” I replied curtly, turning back to my sketchpad. I glanced up a minute later to find him still there, gazing at me with an odd expression on his face. “Are you  _ quite  _ all right?”

He nodded, tilting his head to the side. “Your hair is very beautiful in this light. Like fire.”

I blinked, trying to remember when I had last been called beautiful—and by a young man, at that. No examples came to mind. Of course I was hardly one to care about my appearance, but I confess his remark made me smile.

“You’re kind to say so, though you should know that idle flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Why, Miss O’ Malley, I am not trying to  _ get  _ anywhere. Except, perhaps, to someplace where I may sit and enjoy the sunshine during a rare hour of free time.”

I sighed. “Then I suppose you may sit here.  _ If  _ you’ll promise not to disturb me while I am sketching.”

Fëanor smiled and flopped onto the grass next to me, stretching out his limbs gracefully. He closed his eyes, and I couldn’t help but admire him for a moment; with his eyes closed and smile on his face, he looked like a fairy-tale prince, young and handsome and innocent.

Before he could open his eyes and catch me looking, though, I turned back to my sketching.

Good as his word, Fëanor didn’t disturb me until I had finished what I was working on, and waited for me to begin the conversation before he started talking. Once he began, though, it was hard to stop him. I learned of his time at Oxford (“one would think, being the youngest student there, I would have had a great deal more to learn”), his great admiration for Benjamin Franklin (“fearlessly devoted to the pursuit of wisdom and progress, as I intend to be”), and his disdain for the London aristocrats with whom his family associated (“a load of worthless dandies who care more about the cut of their jackets than the state of society”). When I teased him about his flashy pocket watch, saying it showed even he had a commitment to elegance, his face grew serious.

“It wasn’t a purchase I made, though I confess I am rather attached to it,” Fëanor said, pulling the watch out of his pocket and eyeing it fondly. “My mother had it made for my father when they were first married, and he gave it to me when I finished school.”

“Oh.” I blushed. “I didn’t mean to tease, forgive me. It’s a lovely watch. If you’ll forgive me for asking...I’ve heard you mention your stepmother. Is your own mother…”

“She died,” Fëanor said bluntly. “In childbirth. She died, and I survived, in the usual unfair twist of fate.”

“God rest her soul,” I said softly, crossing myself. Fëanor did as well, though with less enthusiasm. “She must have been quite a woman, to be your mother.”

“She was,” he said. “She was brilliant. It’s thanks to her my father was able to make his fortune, she was the driving force behind all his investments. Not only that, but she was an artist— a genius with a needle and thread. My father still refuses to use any handkerchiefs that she didn’t embroider.” Fëanor flipped open the watch and handed it to me, pointing out the miniature portrait painted on the inside of the lid. “That’s her. Miriel Cosero Gates. She was from Spain, originally, so you see I am not entirely as English as you make me out to be.”

Miriel Gates had been a lovely woman, I thought. I could certainly see traces of her in her son: the wide eyes, the strong nose, and the pale-golden skin, though her nearly white hair was entirely her own.

“She was beautiful,” I said. “What unusual hair she had!”

“Yes, Father said she had silver hair from a very young age. One of her ‘unique charms,’ as he put it.” Fëanor took the watch back from me, gazing at the portrait with a sigh. “Is it strange, do you think, to miss someone you never knew? It may be a form of madness, but sometimes I feel as though I would sacrifice a decade of my life for one minute with my mother.”

“That isn’t madness,” I told him firmly, resting a hand on his shoulder. It was the first time I had deliberately touched him; his sleeve, and the skin beneath it, was warm, and I felt an odd flutter in my stomach. “That is love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feanor/Benjamin Franklin brOTP


	2. To Win Some Happiness From Life

Madness and love are, as it happens, quite often indistinguishable.

Certainly that was what I thought, after Fëanor had been living with us for nearly eight months. The heat in my belly and pounding in my heart whenever I saw him couldn’t possibly be love, and so it could only be madness.

I entertained no hopes that he would return my interest, nor (so I told myself) did I particularly want him to. It was a childish infatuation, that was all. Besides, no romance between us could ever be successful; he was a wealthy and handsome Londoner, probably with dozens of heiresses after him to marry them, and I was a plain, provincial Irish girl far too focused on her art to think about love. We were so different that the thought of him falling for me was absurd.

After our chat by the creek, though, we had developed something of a friendship. When Fëanor would wander over to wherever I was working, I was willing to chat with him, and we would discuss art and literature and family (he told me of his two half-brothers in London, neither of whom he particularly liked, and I told him of my two older sisters and their perfect lives in Dublin). Fëanor even spent Christmas with us rather than going back to London, helping my mother with the baking and gifting me with an enormous tome on classical Greek and Roman statuary. It was difficult to imagine that he would be leaving in a few months, finishing his apprenticeship and going back to London, and it seemed to me as though our house would be horribly empty without him.

Springtime came at last, and with it my ability to return to my studio, as the small garden shed was entirely too cold during the winter months to be conducive to good work. Inspired by my Christmas present from Fëanor, I had taken it upon myself to sculpt a bust in the classical style, based upon the Greek god Ares. The project was coming along nicely; emerging from the stone was a strong, handsome face, with wide eyes and high cheekbones, and once again I was so engrossed in my work that I almost did not hear a knock on the door.

“Come in!” I called, barely glancing up when Fëanor strode in, eyes alight with curiosity as usual.

“Good morning, Nerdanel,” Fëanor said brightly. “Working hard, I see.

“As ever. There’s no rest for the wicked.”

“None but a fool would ever call you wicked, Miss Nerdanel. What is it you’re working on this time? Is that…” He leaned in and inspected the sculpture closely. “Is that  _ me?” _

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I retorted, hurriedly pulling a cloth over the bust. “It’s the Greek god Ares. It’s...classical.”

“Is that so?” With a smirk, Fëanor lifted the cloth back off. “A handsome devil, this Ares. I would be jealous, were it not for the fact that he has my nose, my hair, and my burn scar on his cheekbone.”

My face had grown so hot I thought I was in danger of melting. “Typical Pom arrogance, assuming everything is directly related to you.”

“Oh, I agree, arrogance is one of my worst faults. If it were unjustified, that is. Though in this case, unjustified it certainly is  _ not.  _ There’s no need to blush so, Miss Nerdanel, I’m quite flattered to be immortalized in this manner…”

I have no excuse for what I did next, except that I desperately wanted him to be quiet. The way I accomplished this was by pushing him back against the wall of the studio and kissing him.

I had been kissed only once before, when I was twelve years old and Will Sullivan had kissed me on a dare at his sister’s wedding. It had been a dry peck on the lips, nothing more, and he’d gone back to his friends and declared, “Nellie O’Malley tastes like clay dust!” I believe it was at that point in my life that I determined I would remain a spinster, as boys were simply more trouble than they were worth.

Kissing Fëanor was not like that in the slightest. Once he got over his initial shock, he pulled me so close it knocked the air out of my lungs and kissed me back, his mouth so hot on my skin I thought I would burst into flames. I felt him pressing against me and could tell he was as eager and excited as I was, and almost without thinking I reached up and undid the buttons at his throat, running my fingers over his smooth skin. It was only when his hand began to slowly make its way down my spine that I realized what I was doing, and pulled back sharply.

“How dare you,” I hissed. “Kissing me like that.”

He laughed incredulously, not letting go of my waist. “How dare  _ I? _ You kissed  _ me,  _ Nerdanel.”

“And who do you think my father will believe, hmm? His beloved daughter or a lecherous Englishman?”

“Oh, I don’t think you will be complaining about me to your father,” Fëanor said calmly. “Because I think the fact that you kissed me just now means you love me as much as I love you.”

I let go of his arms quickly, stumbling back. “You...you love me?”

“Of course I do, you ridiculous girl, are you telling me you hadn’t noticed? I thought I’d made myself very clear, right from the start. Why did you think I was always following you around?”

“Well.” I looked down, ashamed. “I thought perhaps you were making fun of me.”

“Making fun of you? What an odd idea. What on earth would I have to make fun of you about? You are brilliant, talented, strong, and beautiful. You’re the only woman on earth I could ever imagine being with.”

“You should think carefully before you say such things,” I told him, trying to ignore my heart’s rapid pounding. “I am Irish and untitled and provincial and no beauty. I will not give up my art to become a London housewife, and I will  _ not  _ follow orders. You must be completely aware of all of these things before you go telling me you’re in love with me, do I make myself clear?”

“All but for one point. I am thoroughly tired, Nell, of your insistence that you are no beauty. You have so much confidence in your intelligence and your abilities—why do you refuse to believe that I find your red hair and strong arms beautiful?”

“Because the rest of the world does not agree with you, Fëanor.”

“And have I given you the impression that I care about the rest of the world in the slightest?”

I couldn’t suppress a smile. “No, I suppose you have not.”

“Good. I’m glad we’ve got that settled. Now get over here and kiss me again, I am thoroughly tired of talking.”

 

The funny part was, I don’t believe Fëanor ever actually  _ proposed  _ to me as such, nor did I propose to him. At one point he simply said, “when we’re married, I’ll build you a studio twice this size,” and I told him that with his money he could build me a studio the size of Buckingham Palace, and he agreed. And so we were engaged, just like that.

There was a great deal of discussion to do about our future, though. Where would we live, in Kilhenny or London? How would we support ourselves? And how many children would we have?

“I confess I am somewhat attached to London,” Fëanor remarked, as we discussed the matter by the creek one morning. “I grew up there, and there are a great many opportunities in the city...not only for me, but for you as well. There are many lady artists in the city, and I wouldn’t be surprised at all if you were to receive plenty of commissions. But only if you can bear to leave Ireland, of course.”

“London does sound exciting,” I admitted. “You know I have no particular love for England…”

“Naturally.”

“But it would be wonderful to live in the city, as you say, with all its opportunities. Could we, perhaps, divide our time between London and Kilhenny, at least at first? My parents would be only too pleased to have you about the house more.”

Fëanor grinned. “A brilliant compromise. It’s settled, then. And what about children, how many will we have?”

“As many as possible!” I cried. “A child every year! With your looks and my artistry. They’ll be the finest children in Britain.”

“Oh, yes, absolutely. Though I do hope some of them will have your beautiful red hair. Shall we try for twenty, then, ten girls and ten boys?”

“Only if you intend to do half the raising of them, Master Gates,” I said, kicking water at him. “I won’t be stuck at home with screaming babies while you swan about London causing trouble.”

Fëanor leaned over and kissed me, running a hand through my hair. “I can promise you, my dear, I will be there every minute of every day to look after our children with you.”

 

Our future was solidly planned, then. The task that remained, since we were both under twenty-one, was to acquire permission from my parents so we could marry. I was dreading the conversation, though Fëanor seemed confident (as he always did!). On a Sunday evening at dinner, he simply stood up during pudding and declared, “Mr. and Mrs. O’Malley, we would like to request your permission for our marriage.”

Mam looked shocked, though Da merely raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? And what has brought about this request, may I ask?” He glanced at my belly. “Am I to be a grandfather so soon?”

“Da!” I gasped, my face heating up. “Absolutely not, how can you say such a thing?”

Fëanor, meanwhile, merely grinned. “Not yet, Mr. O’Malley, but we  _ are  _ very eager to start our family, and so I’m sure you can see why we would like to get this sorted out as soon as possible.”

“Is there such a hurry?” Mam asked. “You are both very young, of course.”

“Surely, the younger we wed, the more wonderful years we’ll have together,” I put in. “We’ve made our decision, Mam. We simply need your approval so we can get the marriage license.”

“Are you sure you’re willing to marry an Englishman, Nellie?” Da asked with a twinkle in his eye. “Sure, you seemed to strongly oppose the idea of having one on our property, and if you go through with this there will not only be an Englishman on your property but in your bed as well.”

Da was determined to embarrass me, but I wouldn’t back down. “It was silly of me to have such prejudices, yes. Perhaps I’ve had something of a change of heart. There is at least one Englishman I can tolerate.”

“Tolerate, is it? An admirable sentiment, I’m sure. And you, Master Fëanor, do you  _ tolerate _ my daughter?”

“I love her, sir,” Fëanor said simply. “I love her more than nearly anyone else I have ever known. If you tell me we can’t be wed, I will either have to elope with her to Gretna Green, or spend the rest of my life in unfathomable despair.”

“A pretty speech,” said Da dryly, though I could tell he approved. “And you, Nerdanel, do you love this boy?”

“Yes, Da,” I said. “I may not have the gift of blarney to put it as he does, but I love him. We love each other. Please…” To my horror, I discovered tears were starting to gather in my eyes—what if, after all of this, he were to refuse? “Please, Da.”

Da looked over at Mam, who smiled and nodded, dabbing at her own eyes. “All right, then,” he said, with an exaggerated sigh. “If you insist on taking my last daughter from me, Master Fëanor, I suppose there is nothing I can do to stop you.”

Fëanor whooped with delight, clasping my father’s hand. “You won’t regret this, sir. Not a bit.”

“I regret it  _ already,  _ my dear lad. But I can’t back out now. And now, my loves,” Da said, standing up and rubbing his hands together, “we must plan a wedding.”


	3. Nothing Is As Easy As It Looks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter in which I demonstrate that I have been reading a lot of Victorian cookbooks lately.

Shortly after the wedding (a simple but joyful affair, to which Fëanor’s stepmother was not invited), we received news that my new father-in-law Finwë had decided to give Fëanor and I a surprising wedding present: a townhouse of our own, in one of London’s finest neighborhoods. I was slightly disturbed by the extravagance of such a gift, but Fëanor assured me that if we were to refuse his poor father would be devastated and would feel forced to buy us a palace. 

And indeed, it would have been a difficult present to refuse, as the house was lovely; six bedrooms, a small but charming garden in the back, and enough space for both a workshop (for Fëanor’s many science experiments) and a studio for myself. It was excellently located, as well, far enough from other houses in the neighborhood that our noise wouldn’t be so bothersome, and close enough to a park that our future children would have space to run and play outdoors. Its final advantage was that it was just small enough for Fëanor and I to clean on our own, for my husband absolutely refused to hire servants.

“Did Thoreau have servants at Walden Pond?” he would cry, when questioned on the subject. “No, because he understood the importance of  _ self-sufficiency.  _ Nell and I have hands enough to cook and clean for ourselves, and when our children are born they’ll share in the housework rather than becoming spoiled princes.” His argument seemed logical enough to me, though I knew his family found it eccentric.

I knew little about my new in-laws at the outset of my marriage. Finwë had been at our wedding, and I had enjoyed his company—he was a cheerful and handsome man, with Fëanor’s dark hair and a wide smile. And of course I knew that he was a well-respected businessman, and had been knighted by the Queen, at that! But I still hadn’t met his wife or his other two sons, and wasn’t sure I would have an opportunity to do so. 

And so I was pleasantly surprised when Finwë and Lady Indis invited Fëanor and I to dine with them at their home in Mayfair a few weeks after we returned from our honeymoon. Fëanor, however, was not surprised at all, let alone pleasantly.

“I should have known,” he muttered, when I presented the invitation to him. “Indis never misses a chance to show off her grand hospitality. She’ll serve the finest food and the finest champagne and spend the entire dinner making condescending remarks.”

I knew, of course, that Lady Indis was not Fëanor’s mother by blood, but it still shocked me a bit every time he called her by her Christian name. “Perhaps she will, and perhaps she won’t, but personally I’d like to meet the rest of your family myself and form my own judgements. We are  _ married  _ now, Fëanor Gates, and I have a say in this as well.”

Fëanor looked as though he was about to protest further, but finally shook his head. “If you insist, my dear, we’ll go to dinner with them. Though I can’t guarantee I will enjoy it. However, I believe there is one way we can make absolutely certain I’ll be in a calmer state of mind tonight.”

“And what is that, may I ask?”

He grinned wickedly and swept me into his arms, pushing up my skirt as we tumbled onto the kitchen floor together. 

We  _ did  _ make it to dinner on time and dressed, but only just.

 

Finwë and Indis’ home in Mayfair was even grander than the one they’d gifted to us, and  felt a hint of trepidation as we were ushered into the parlor by the butler, a man who looked as though he’d never smiled in his life. When Fëanor and I were alone, even in our elegant new house, it was easy enough to forget that we came from different backgrounds, we understood each other so well. But being confronted with all this luxury made me feel rather like a simple Irish peasant girl again.

“This place looked quite different when I was growing up here,” Fëanor remarked. “Then again, it also looks quite different from how it did six weeks ago, I wager. The decor around here seems to change every ten minutes.” He nodded towards a portrait on the wall, which I recognized immediately as being a larger version of the one in his pocket-watch. “At least that picture hasn’t been moved. The day Mother stops keeping watch over this house is the day it will crumble around our ears.”

“You shouldn’t say such things…” I began, though was cut off by the return of the butler, who announced that our hosts were ready to join us.

Finwë was as jovial and gentlemanly as usual, embracing Fëanor tightly and giving me a loving kiss on the cheek. Two young boys stood quietly behind him, one dark-haired and one fair, probably Fingolfin and Finarfin, Fëanor’s half-brothers. My eyes, though, were drawn to the elegant lady next to Finwë, who could only be my new mother-in-law. Stepmother-in-law? I wasn’t sure of the precise terminology, and knew that whichever I said I would be offending someone.

After everything I had heard from my husband on the subject, I suppose I was expecting Lady Indis to be a terrifyingly frivolous, Marie Antoinette sort of person. She was indeed very pretty, and her pale-violet gown was worn over an astonishingly wide crinoline, but my overall impression was of a calm and cheerful woman, yellow-haired and fashionably plump, with an eager smile. Indis awkwardly shook hands with Fëanor, exchanging brisk greetings, before turning to me.

“You must be our new daughter-in-law,” she said, taking my calloused hand in her soft pale one (I wished, for a moment, that I had thought to wear gloves). “What a pleasure it is to meet you at last!”

“And you as well, Lady Indis,” I said, bobbing an awkward curtsey—something I had never excelled at, though fortunately my dress lacked a crinoline and I was at less of a risk of toppling over. “You have a lovely home.”

“How kind of you to say so, dear. Now that the boys are in school, I must fill the dull hours with decorating! It gives them something new to come home to every holiday, at least. Now come, we must go to dinner, we’re starting with the most wonderful clear soup. My cook,” she told me conspiratorially, “says that the secret to a truly wonderful soup is  _ egg shells,  _ can you believe it? They give a dish its sheen.”

“My stepmother has never set foot in a kitchen in her life,” Fëanor whispered to me, as he took my arm and led me toward the dining room, “but quotes her cook constantly to give her an air of charming domesticity.” I had to bite my lip to hold back a giggle; pleasant as Lady Indis seemed thus far, Fëanor’s assessment did seem to hit the mark. 

We were a small group at dinner, only six of us in all, and I was seated between Finwë and Fingolfin, a gangly lad of sixteen just back from boarding school. There was a remarkable resemblance, I thought, between him and Fëanor, though Fingolfin had wavy hair and blue eyes, and showed signs of growing a mustache. Across from me sat Finarfin, aged fourteen, the spitting image of his mother, with a presence that put me at ease. Both young men were friendly enough with me, though I noticed that Fëanor and Fingolfin spoke to each other in the very shortest of phrases, with little to no eye contact.

“And where in Ireland are you from, Nerdanel?” Indis asked brightly, as we made our way through the excellent food (whether or not Indis ever set foot in a kitchen, the cook knew her business). “We know so little about you, it seems! I’m desperately curious to learn everything there is to know.”

“I am from the western coast, Lady Indis,” I replied, ignoring Fëanor’s grimace. “The parish of Kilhenny.”

“Ah, then you must know the Sheridans! Dear friends of mine, they throw the loveliest party every May Day.”

I shook my head. “I have heard the name, ma’am, but we don’t know them personally.”

“Dear me, how disappointing. Perhaps you’re acquainted with the Thompsons?” Again, I shook my head. “The Cornwells? No? Lady Cornwell and I were presented at court together, such a dear lady. The Aldarons, then?”

“Enough, Indis,” Fëanor snapped. “I won’t have you torturing my wife with your endless name-dropping. The O’Malleys are an excellent family, regardless of who they’re acquainted with.”

The rest of us lowered our eyes and picked awkwardly at our roast goose. “I do know the Aldarons, as it happens,” I said eventually, cutting through the tense silence. “The Duke and my father are old friends. Da made half the Duchess’ jewelry.”

Indis shot me a gratified smile. “How delightful. I knew we must have some friend in common. Tell me, is the Duchess still getting those terrible headaches?”

 

“You needn’t humor my stepmother like that, you know,” Fëanor told me on the way home. “Like so many ladies of the upper crust, she’s not satisfied unless she knows everyone’s place on the social hierarchy.”

“Perhaps she’s just shy,” I suggested. “It can be much easier making conversation when someone when you know you have a friend in common. That way you know you will have something to discuss.”

“I suppose so,” Fëanor said, sounding unconvinced. “Though I’m relieved you made it through a dinner with my family and came out unscathed. I was worried you would find them unbearably silly.”

“They are not nearly as bad as you think they are, darling. Besides,” I added, kissing him on the cheek, “even if your family were the Borgias, I would still get along with them for your sake.”

There was, of course, a part of me that dearly wished I could reconcile Fëanor with his stepmother and brothers. But my husband, like me, was stubborn, and whatever had gone wrong between him and that part of his family could not be fixed by anyone other than himself. I knew this, and so I kept my diplomatic attempts to a polite minimum. 

Besides, I soon had many, many other things to occupy my thoughts.


	4. A Child Every Year To You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently resisting the urge to make a "tag yourself" meme with the Gates family if anyone's wondering where my mind goes when I'm sick.
> 
> Anyway, have some adorable small children.

Maedhros’ first word was  _ Mama. _

Our first baby, our perfect little boy; he was so beautiful I thought I could happily spend all day looking at him and never sculpt again, for I could never make anything as lovely as Maedhros. He would be a heartbreaker when he got older, I knew for certain, for who could resist those red curls and dimples and that lovely smile?

He learned to speak early, before he turned a year old, and would toddle after me as I went about the house, calling “Mama!” and tugging on my skirts. I was the one he came to when he scraped his knee on the pavement, or when he wanted a lullaby. While Fëanor was there to look after the baby as often as I needed, just as he’d promised, in the first year or two Maedhros was closest to me.

“I think perhaps I ought to be jealous,” Fëanor remarked to me in bed one evening, after we’d put Maedhros down for the night. “Our son would happily spend every minute of every day with you and completely neglect his poor father.”

“Babies are usually closer to their mothers during the first few years,” I assured him. “Don’t think he loves you any less. In a few years he’ll be following  _ you  _ everywhere and I will be the one left out.”

“Then we’ll simply have to have another one,” Fëanor whispered, “so you and Maedhros will both have a new best friend and no one in this house will be lonely.”

“Soon enough, I think,” I said with a smile. “Though perhaps not  _ just  _ yet. I’ll need a year or two more to regain my strength if our next baby is going to be as big as our first was.”

Just as I predicted, as he grew older Maedhros did become closer to his father—he shared Fëanor’s passion for learning, and Fëanor was eager to teach him everything he knew. It was wonderful to see the bond between the two of them, and I was glad Fëanor no longer had any cause to be jealous.

Still, though, I was secretly pleased that when Maedhros was afraid, or heartbroken, or overjoyed, it was me he came to first. 

 

Maglor, I was concerned about. While he was certainly a loud and expressive baby, cooing and crying and even singing after a fashion (inspiring his father’s choice of middle name, no doubt!) he didn’t speak a word until he was two years old. 

I’ll admit I felt some shame, two years in, at Maglor’s refusal to learn speech—here I was, expecting again, and what if my third child began talking before my second one? Fëanor, however, reassured me. “He’ll speak when he’s ready,” he said. “All children must learn at their own pace. And surely with little Maedhros being so chatty you’re not starved for conversation.”

He was right, of course. Maedhros was four by this point, and had no shortage of questions about the world around him. Besides, words or no, it was a delight to sit and listen to my second son babble nonsensically in his lovely voice, waving his hands and grinning broadly. And of course Maglor was nearly as beautiful as Maedhros, though in his own way, with Fëanor’s dark hair but my turned-up nose and freckles, as well as almost unnaturally large eyes. Fëanor would often call him our “little owl,” both for his looks and his tendency to stay awake at all hours when his brother was fast asleep.

When Maglor finally did learn to speak, not long after his second birthday, his first word was “Mine!” He used it not only to ask for things (“mine cake!” “mine hug!”) but to ask what things were called, crying out “Mine?” whenever he encountered something new. When we were at his grandfather’s house for Easter luncheon that year, while the adults chatted Maglor climbed up onto the bench in front of Indis’ piano, staring at the instrument with fascination. “Mine?” he chirped.

Indis laughed indulgently, ruffling his curls. “That’s a piano, dear. It is for making music.” And she played a few quick notes.

I will never forget the delight in my wee boy’s eyes, nor the tone of his voice when he declared, “ _ Mine  _ music.”

 

Celegorm, I thought at first, must have been one of those Scottish selkies, as he was the most slippery little baby I had ever met. If he wasn’t swaddled up as tightly as possible, he would wriggle of of Fëanor’s or my arms and crash down onto the floor before either of us could blink. Fëanor and I were terrified at first, thinking all those tumbles would do him some serious injury, but he was a strong one, our third, with little use for coddling. And of course he was beautiful too, the only one of our children to inherit my mother’s yellow hair—and he had my father’s hands, too, with such a firm grip I often thought he might break one of my fingers.

It wasn’t the first word he ever said, but the word I most associated with Celegorm’s early childhood was “Look!” When he was old enough to walk about on his own, he would come into my studio and grab one of my fingers in his strong little hand, dragging me out to the garden to admire everything around me. “Look, Mama, bird!” he would exclaim. Or, less pleasantly, “Look, Mama, worm!” (And once, horrifyingly, “Look, Mama, that squirrel is dead!”) I would often find, after having been shut up in my studio for hours on end, that Celegorm’s enthusiasm for nature would provide me with the inspiration I needed to finish a project. He may not have been an artist himself, but my third son certainly had an artist’s eye.

What worried me about Celegorm was that, as he grew older, he didn’t seem to be getting any less feral. Certainly, it was normal for a baby to dislike wearing clothes, but far less seemly for a three-year-old boy to tear off his sailor suit in the park and go jumping into the duck pond. Nor did I think it was entirely proper for him to try and lick every new substance he came across, or to wake us up at the crack of dawn by crawling into our bed and growling like a lion. 

“I told you I’d have your children, Fëanor,” I told my husband, after Celegorm had attempted to convert our bathtub into a rabbit hutch. “But I made no promises in regards to raising wild animals.”

“Well, look at it this way,” Fëanor pointed out. “He wakes up so early—and the rest of the house along with him—that we’ll never have any need to buy an alarm clock”

 

Caranthir, like Maedhros, learned to speak early. But unlike Maedhros, the only word my fourth son ever wanted to say was “No.”

Probably he knew plenty of other words far sooner than he let on, but for nearly a year after he started talking “no” was all he said. It seemed as though he relished the power that refusing absolutely everything gave him; more than once, as a toddler, he reduced Maglor to tears, for every time Maglor offered him a toy Caranthir would scream “No!” at ever-increasing volumes until one of them threw something.

He had his father’s temper, but more than any of his brothers, Caranthir inherited my Irish complexion—not only did he have my freckles, but he got my tendency to turn red as a beet when experiencing any kind of emotion. I believe he also inherited the anxiety I’d often suffered from as a child, the worries that he was neither as good-looking nor as talented as his siblings. It was true that he lacked Maedhros’ charisma, Maglor’s musical genius, and Celegorm’s adventurous nature, but underneath his prickly surface he had a brilliant analytical mind and a sharp wit. And when his grandfather gave him some of Miriel’s old knitting supplies (“your granny had a temper as well, my boy, and she made some of her most beautiful work while angry”) he proved he’d inherited some of the family artistry as well.

Looking at Caranthir, I could finally understand the frustration Fëanor must have felt when I insisted he could not find me beautiful, for I though my middle child was both handsome and incomparably clever. And I told him so, every chance I had.

 

Unsurprisingly, Curufin’s first word was “Da.” He was so much like his father that it was uncanny, with the same dark hair, strong nose, and fiery silver eyes. When we first introduced little Curufin to his grandfather, Finwë nearly burst into tears, telling us it was like looking thirty years into the past.

Right from the start, it was Fëanor to whom Curufin was close, not me. When I held him, he would whine and fuss until I put him in Fëanor’s arms, and he would refuse to sleep until his father came into his room to say goodnight. It was almost painful when he began walking and talking and eating solid food, for when Curufin stopped being a baby anymore he also stopped needing his mother.

I was proud of him, though. Incredibly proud. How could I not be? He was his father’s joy, the only one of the children who inherited Fëanor’s passion for invention. Even as a small boy he would try to take things apart to see how they worked, and more than once I entered the sitting room to discover that he had completely dismantled our clock (oddly, he was able to put it back together perfectly, and it functioned much better after he did). Curufin was a genius, and I applauded his every achievement.

Fëanor bragged about all our children, to the point where it was embarrassing, but he bragged about Curufin the most, something I didn’t entirely approve of. “You’ll either make him horribly arrogant or abjectly terrified to let you down,” I said. “And our other sons will feel they mean nothing to you.” My husband said that was nonsense, that he was simply glad one of the boys shared his interests, but I could see that some of the children—Maglor and Caranthir in particular—felt a bit of resentment that Fëanor had such a clear favorite. Celegorm never seemed to have any ill will towards Curufin, though, and indeed they became very close friends. Possibly because they were complete opposites.

 

The twins were our last children. Not entirely by design, though after having five boys in a row I admit some of my enthusiasm had waned. We had wanted a daughter and kept trying for one, hoping that my sixth pregnancy would finally result in a girl.

Instead, we were blessed with Amrod and Amras.

It was a difficult birth, with many long hours of pain and fear (Fëanor told me later that, while he was not by nature a praying man, he’d spent hours pleading with God to take his life instead of mine). After it was all done, I was almost relieved when the doctor told me it would no longer be safe for me to attempt any more children.

They were worth all the trouble, though, our dear little ginger-haired boys. Much smaller than their older brothers had been as babies, and so much alike I was constantly worried at first that I would forget which one was which. Not for a minute could they bear to be separated from one another; we tried to put them in different cradles at first, but they would cry and refuse to sleep until we put them in the same bed.  

Fëanor and I had a theory (perhaps not a very scientific one) that the twins could somehow communicate with each other without needing words. Certainly, it would explain why it took them almost as long as Maglor to start talking, and why when they  _ did  _ start to speak they almost always spoke in unison. Our friends and neighbors often found this habit uncanny, though Fëanor thought it endlessly amusing. “I can’t tell if they’re doing it without thinking or to be amusing,” he told me, “but they’re bewildering London society and I respect them for it.”

Amrod and Amras were insatiably curious, just as Celegorm had been, and I would often have to chase after them to prevent them from toddling out into the street to explore. They especially loved visiting Finwë’s house in the country, where there were endless passageways to be explored, hedge mazes to get lost in, and billowing drapes to hide behind. “When we grow up,” Amrod told me brightly after one such visit to Doubletree Manor, “we are going to be famous explorers and sail all around the world and never stop.”

I pulled him and Amras into my arms, squeezing them both tightly. “You can explore all you like, dearest, but please make sure you always come back to Mum.”


	5. For The Test Of The Heart Is Trouble

Ours was not the only new marriage in the family over the next few years. When Fingolfin was barely twenty-one, he met a lovely young woman of Goan extraction by the name of Anairë Torres, and married her on her family’s estate in India not a year later. Fëanor and I did not attend the wedding, as we had small children at home (nor did my husband have much interest in going) but we were told by Finwë that the ceremony was both beautiful and extravagant. 

I liked Anairë well enough, though it was difficult to get to know her; she was so proper it was difficult to gauge how she felt about anything. She seemed to channel all her opinions and energy into being the most elegantly dressed woman in any given room. Her colorful silk scarves and ruffled parasols were lovely, certainly, but didn’t seem to reveal much about her as a person.

Fëanor, of course, didn’t have any particular fondness for his new sister-in-law “Those two,” he snorted. “They’ve got such stiff upper lips their children won’t be able to open their mouths. And they’ll be spoiled as the day is long, mark my words.”

It did seem that Anairë would have a much easier time as a mother than I did, for as soon as their eldest, Fingon, was born Fingolfin hired a veritable retinue of nurses and governesses. And yet I didn’t envy Anairë a bit: if she was like most wealthy mothers in London, she would only see her children for an hour or two a day before they were sent back to the nursery, whereas Fëanor and I were able to be there for our boys nearly every minute.

Young Finarfin, too, was soon married, in 1867. His new bride was The Honorable Eärwen Llewellyn, only daughter of an aristocratic and very literary Welsh family (her father, Olwë Llewellyn, was a famous poet, while her mother had written a series of books for children). This wedding we were actually able to go to, as Swansdowne Castle in Wales was not too difficult to travel to, and Fëanor had a much more cordial relationship with Finarfin than he did with Fingolfin. Not having a nanny at home to look after the children (three, at this point), we brought them along, making it very plain to six-year-old Maedhros that it was his job to be an example to his brothers of gentlemanly behavior.

I’d heard, of course, that the Llewellyns were known for being somewhat eccentric, but thought little of it (after all, Fëanor and I were known for being somewhat eccentric ourselves). It wasn’t until we arrived at Swansdowne Castle that we realized exactly how that eccentricity manifested itself—specifically, in the form of birds. Not only the enormous flocks of swans the place was named after, but birds of all sorts, from parakeets in cages lining the hallways to enormous screeching peacocks stalking the grounds. The evening before the wedding, I even glimpsed the bride herself, beautiful twenty-year-old Eärwen Llewellyn, strolling about the gardens walking a swan on a velvet lead.

“It seems just about right that Finarfin is marrying into this strange family,” Fëanor remarked, when I told him what his new sister-in-law was up to. “They’re just as frivolous as he is.”

“Frivolous they may be, but I think they’re good people nonetheless. They’ve assigned one of their own maids to look after the children whenever we need a break from them.”

“I never need a break from my children,” Fëanor said, kissing me on the nose. “My half-brothers, on the other hand..”

“Oh, stop.”

 

The ceremony the day after we arrived was beautiful, if fairly uneventful. The bride wore a daringly low-cut gown and was escorted down the aisle not only by her father but her pet swan (whose name, I discovered, was Albert), but apparently none of this was scandalous enough to interest year-old Celegorm, who snoozed in my arms throughout. Still, it was wonderful to see the young couple’s joy, and even Fëanor was smiling sincerely as they exchanged vows.

We had promised Maedhros and Maglor that if they were good they could stay up and watch some of the dancing after dinner, and so after the food was cleared away Fëanor took them down to the ballroom, promising to look after them while I socialized. “After all, you’ve been looking after them all day, and I can guarantee that our boys will be better conversationalists than anyone else at this bun fight,” he told me. I, meanwhile, found myself in deep in conversation with my new sister-in-law, who was a very cheerful young woman with a great deal to say on practically everything. She talked at length about the history of the castle and her parents’ literary works, before peppering me with questions about art and London and my family.

“My new husband says your children are absolutely lovely. How many do you have in all?”

“Three so far,” I said. “Fëanor is watching the eldest two now—they are six and three years old—and Celegorm is only a year old, he’s upstairs resting. That is, I  _ think  _ he is resting.” I glanced around the ballroom nervously. “He does have a tendency to explore.”

“How lucky you are,” Eärwen sighed rapturously. “I would love to have such a large family. I’ve told Finarfin several times that he must brace himself for three children at the  _ very least. _ ”

“It has its moments of joy, but can be very taxing,” I replied. “And Fëanor gets so lost in his work that it’s often as though I have four children, I have to take care of him so much. “

“Gracious! You must be so proud of your husband, but I must say I am very glad Finarfin is  _ not  _ a brilliant inventor. He will have lots more time to devote to me. I say, are those not your two oldest boys running full tilt towards us now?”

It was indeed little Maedhros and Maglor hurrying across the ballroom floor...well, Maedhros hurrying, while Maglor toddled after him as quickly as he could.  

“My goodness, boys, what are you doing?”

“Mine,” Maglor said plaintively, clinging to my skirts. I looked at Maedhros, who was shifting from foot to foot guiltily.

“Maedhros, my love, why are you not with your father?”

“Dad’s busy,” Maedhros said, chewing his lip. 

“Busy with  _ what?” _

“Busy with shouting at Uncle Fingolfin. Are you cross, Mum? Don’t be cross, we didn’t want to interrupt Dad when he was busy…”

“It’s not you I’m cross with,” I said firmly, scooping up Maglor and taking Maedhros’ hand. “Let’s go check on your father, shall we?”

My husband and his brother were standing across the room by the refreshments table, both red in the face and with the remnants of shattered champagne flutes at their feet. They were shouting over each other to the point where I could barely understand them, though I was able to pick out a few key phrases.

“...profits down by twenty-five percent, yes, but how that gives you the right to criticize my personal life…”

“If you weren’t so damned extravagant with the family money a drop of twenty-five percent in profits wouldn’t matter!  _ How  _ many cooks have you got on staff, and for a family of only three?”

“I suppose I should be like you, then, living like a peasant, and force my wife to do all the housework despite having the resources to live like a maharajah!”

Fëanor pulled back his arm as though he were about to strike Fingolfin across the face. Without thinking, I leaped forward (nearly dropping poor wee Maglor) and grabbed his elbow tightly. “If you hit your brother in front of all these people,” I hissed, “I will divorce you and take the children to Ireland.”

The threat must have been believable enough to work, as Fëanor dropped his hand quickly. “My wife comes to save the day, as usual,” he declared loudly, voice slurring slightly. “How lucky I am to have her!”

“Lower your voice,” I ordered. “And apologize to your brother. You are upsetting the children.” Would I, I wondered,  _ ever  _ have a reprieve from mothering everyone in my family? Maglor was wailing now, and even Maedhros’ lower lip was wobbling dangerously. 

Fëanor’s face softened, and he lowered himself onto one knee, ruffling Maedhros’ hair gently. “Ah, I see. Have I disappointed you terribly, little one?”

“Well,” Maedhros said. “It’s rude to shout, isn’t it? And you were shouting  _ very  _ loudly.”

“Hmm. From the mouths of babes, it seems.” Fëanor stood, lifting Maedhros into his arms. “Fingolfin, I apologize. We will finish this discussion later.” Before Fingolfin could reply, Fëanor scooped Maglor out of my hands as well, not seeming at all troubled by the weight of both our eldest boys. “I am going to put the boys to bed, Nerdanel. I presume you’ll waltz with me when I return?” He strode out of the ballroom, not waiting for a reply, while the rest of us stood gaping behind him.

“Oh, dear, the menfolk are always causing trouble,” Eärwen, who had followed me, said cheerfully. “Shall we have some more champagne?”

 

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” I informed Fëanor that night, after the festivities had finally wound down. “Causing a scene like that at your dear brother’s wedding.”

“Nonsense,” said Fëanor brightly, unknotting his cravat and flinging it across the room. “The whole affair was horribly dull before I spiced it up a bit. It’ll give the old biddies something to talk about for months.”

“You’re still drunk,” I said disapprovingly. “Fëanor Gates, you are twenty-six years old with three children and you are behaving like a schoolboy. What would your father say?”

“I can assure you that my illustrious father will give me a blistering lecture tomorrow on the subject of propriety and family solidarity, and I will listen intently and nod at all the right moments. Now come to bed, dearest, I’m in need of some comfort from my wife.”

“You’ve got some nerve, asking me for comfort. I’m rather inclined to go and sleep in the children’s room.”

“Ah, but you won’t,” Fëanor drawled, flopping onto the bed and unbuttoning his shirt. “Because you love me, don’t you, Nellie? You’ll love me no matter what I do.”

“I can hardly guarantee that,” I said, though with less bite in my voice. Crawling under the covers, I leaned my head on my husband’s shoulder. “One day you’ll go too far, you know. And then what will you have to say for yourself, hmm?”

He didn’t answer, having fallen fast asleep, still in his shirt and trousers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found out that "bun fight" is old-timey slang for party and now that's the only thing I'm going to call any formal event ever.


	6. May All Your Little Ones Be Trouble Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy some Christmas in May, for some reason.

I never wanted to send the children to boarding school. My sisters and I had been taught at home, and I was perfectly willing to do the same for all my boys. Feanor insisted, though, that even if we were to hire tutors it would be impossible to educate all the boys at once. 

“Besides,” he pointed out. “I had a wonderful time at St. Francis. It’s the perfect sort of school: a strong commitment to academics and no toleration for nonsense. I absolutely thrived there.”

“My love, you were only there for three years before they ran out of things to teach you and you had to be sent off to Oxford.”

“And who’s to say it won’t be just the same for our boys? They’re our children, you know, they’re bound to be brilliant. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Therefore, when Maedhros turned twelve, we waved him a tearful goodbye at King’s Cross Station and sent him up to Scotland, where we hoped he would receive the education that his clever, curious mind deserved. 

His marks were excellent, and his letters home were full of enthusiastic descriptions of his wonderful new friends and the brilliance of his teachers—for our eldest, it seemed, boarding school was exactly what he needed. As a result, when Maglor begged us three years later to let him stay in London with his little brothers and his beloved piano lessons, we assured him all would be well and sent him north to join his brother.

St. Francis did not suit our second son at all. Lacking his elder brother’s commitment to academia, and being a shy young thing (at least at that point), he found few friends and earned poor marks, and his letters home became increasingly despairing. It was nearly a relief when he became ill halfway through his second year and had to be sent home; after all, it resulted in his being sent off to Vienna, which he adored.

Fortunately, none of the other children had such a dreadful experience as poor Maglor. Caranthir and Curufin, in particular, were brilliant students, and even slightly-feral Celegorm adored morning hikes and playing rugby. This was all very well and good, and I couldn’t have been more pleased that my children were doing so well, but I still found myself marking off the days on the calendar until each holiday when we would all be together again.

 

By 1880, all the children were in school save for the youngest three (and Maedhros, who had done with St. Francis altogether and was now at Oxford). The Christmas holidays were fast approaching, and I was overjoyed at the thought of the older boys all returning to London. Feanor, however, had slightly different plans.

“How would you feel, my love, about spending the holidays in Ireland with your family this year?” he suggested nonchalantly, a week before the children were to arrive home. “I haven’t seen your parents in some time, and you know how fond I am of them. I’m sure the children would love to see their grandparents, as well.”

I frowned. “Sure, it’s a fine idea, but we always spend Christmas in London with your family. Have you quarrelled with them again?”

“Of course not! Why would you...oh, very well then. I may have had a  _ minor  _ dispute with Fingolfin over that unscrupulous new accountant he’s hired. We wouldn’t want a thing like that to put a damper on this merry season, would we?”

“How incredibly persuasive you are. I suppose I would rather spend Our Lord’s birthday with my parents rather than watching you and your brother scowl at each other over the plum pudding. I’ll write to Da immediately.”

“Thank you for being so understanding, my dear wife. I’ll inform the little ones.”

The children, luckily, were delighted at the thought of spending Christmas in Ireland, and my parents were pleased as well, as we’d barely seen them since the twins were born. The travel arrangements were a bit more trouble than usual, but all nine of us managed to make it to Kilhenny the day before Christmas Eve. To the children’s excited surprise, there was a light dusting of snow covering the farm, turning the place into an illustration from a fairy tale. As our carriage rolled up the drive Da emerged from the house, his red hair and beard streaked with white but his smile as broad as ever.

“My boys!” Da bellowed, embracing each of the children in turn so tightly I thought he might break their spines. “Bless me, look how much each of you have grown! And my, my, these can’t be the wee twins, these are a pair of strapping boys! I know for a fact that Amrod and Amras are just babies.” He bent and tickled the twins behind the ears, making them shriek with laughter, before looking up at Feanor and I with warmth in his eyes. “My dear daughter and son-in-law. How proud you must be.”

“Prouder every year,” Feanor replied. “Just as you must be.”

Mam, too, had come out of the house by this point, and she winked at me as she lifted Amras into her arms. “Oh, we’re prouder every time we get a letter from you lot. Though it’s nice to see our dear grandchildren in the flesh for once. Maedhros, my goodness, you’re taller than your father now!”

“Yes, and that’s why Dad’s so pleased I’m off at Oxford now, so he doesn’t have to spend all his time looking up at me!”

Mam and Da took it upon themselves to settle the boys into their rooms (there was just enough space that no one had to sleep in the sitting room, as my sisters and their families were spending the holiday in Dublin). With the rest of the family occupied, Feanor and I took a stroll around the grounds, having a good laugh at our memories of twenty years earlier.

“That creek looks so much smaller now. Do you remember how you insisted on sitting with me there and telling me every single one of your opinions?”

“I seem to recall you having plenty of your own to share with me as well. And there’s the good old smithy, of course, where I managed to set my hair on fire at least six times.”

“Because you were far too stylish to cut it, of course!”

“And there’s your dear old workshop! How quaint it seems not, compared to what you’ve got in London.” 

“It’s still just as it was,” I said wistfully as we entered, running my finger over a crude figure of a bird I’d made when I was just a girl. “When I was young I thought I’d grow up to be a spinster and spend my whole life in this shed making beautiful things. I didn’t mind the thought, not really. Though I must say I’m glad things turned out how they did.”

“I have quite a different memory of this place,” Feanor said with a smirk. “Do you remember our first kiss? Goodness, you were a wanton young thing back then.”

I sniffed. “If I was being wanton, it was  _ entirely  _ your fault. Your drove me quite mad back then.”

He moved to stand behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “And do I still drive you mad, my love? I certainly hope so.”

“Oh, you drive me mad, all right. In more ways than one.”

“How wonderful it is to hear that. I don’t believe we’re expected at dinner for another hour or so...would you care to renew our memories of some of that wantonness?”

With a wink, I locked the workshop door.

 

Christmas morning for us began when the grandfather clock in the hallway chimed six o’clock, and Feanor and I were awoken by an ominous dark shape lurking in front of us. With a giggle, the shape landed on the end of our bed with a thump, followed by several more.

“Good morning, Mum and Dad!” declared a voice I recognized as Celegorm’s. “Merry Christmas!”

“Blast it all, boys, we only returned from Mass four hours ago, and you’re awake already?” Feanor grumbled. “Go back to sleep for another few hours, won’t you, let your poor old parents get some rest.”

“We can’t rest!” squealed Amras. “It’s  _ Christmas!” _

“Besides, Granny and Granddad are already awake as well,” Maedhros pointed out with a chuckle. “There’s no use in waiting about, you may as well accept it.”

We’d never had a Christmas tree as children, but there was one downstairs now, a huge one hung with ribbons and candles and exquisite ornaments my father had clearly spent hours making. And of course under the tree were piles of gifts, of all shapes and sizes, some from Mam and Da and plenty more we had brought from London.

“We always say we’re not going to spoil those children,” Feanor whispered to me, “and yet every year we manage to purchase them the equivalent of an entire toy shop.”

“There’s no harm in spoiling them once a year,” I replied. “And they have been  _ very  _ good this year.”

My parents had evidently decided in favor of spoiling the boys as well, for they had bought and made a bewildering array of gifts: a  bodhrán for Maglor, an exquisitely fashioned model train for Curufin, hand-sewn plush dogs for the twins, and a multitude of other delightful things.  Wrapping paper was soon flying about the room as the boys dug into their gifts, exclaiming with pleasure at each one.

It was a joyful scene; the heat and the noise, though, were starting to make my head swim and my knees weak. Since the birth of the twins, I had often suffered from spells of dizziness and exhaustion, and while they were less frequent six years on, they still hit without warning. This was the worst I’d experienced in several months, and I collapsed into the nearest armchair, staring blankly at the dancing flames in the fireplace

“Mum? Are you all right?”

I blinked, my vision clearing to reveal Maglor kneeling in front of me, concern on his face.  _ How much he has grown,  _ I thought vaguely.  _ And how young he still looks. _

“Mum?”

With effort, I sat up straight and patted his shoulder gently. “Yes, my love, I am fine.”

“Are you sure?” He looked at me with those wide, owl-like eyes, biting his lip in worry. “You’re not...ill?”

Of course he would ask me that—of all my sons, Maglor was the one who most knew what it was like to be sick. “I’m not ill, dear. I promise. I would tell you if I was. It really is just another one of my tired spells. Go back and play with your brothers.”

“If you’re sure.” He glanced back at me reluctantly as he went to join the other boys, as though he was afraid I was about to faint, but a moment later I heard a lively beat coming from his new  bodhrán, and knew that I hadn’t dampened his spirits too much.

Da came and sat beside me, ruffling my hair as we watched the boys admiring their gifts. “Tired, Nellie?”

“A bit,” I said with a yawn. “Just part of being a mother, I suppose.”

“Aye, your mother said she often felt the same, and we only had three little girls to look after! But you must tell me something honestly, my love. Are you happy?”

“Oh, yes, Da,” I replied, leaning my head against his shoulder. “I couldn’t possibly be happier.”


	7. But Never Forget to Remember

Over the next few years the atmosphere in London changed considerably, as one by one the children left home and moved on to bigger and better things. Maedhros finished his studies at Oxford and took a junior position in a law firm, working hours long enough that we rarely saw him, and when we did he always looked completely exhausted. He told us little of his social life during this time; we heard rumors from time to time that he was courting one girl or another, but these flirtations never seemed to lead anywhere.

The rest of the boys were meeting with varying levels of success: Celegorm had begun reading Natural Sciences at Cambridge, but had left after two years, claiming he was destined for far greater things than academia. That those “greater things” mainly seemed to consist of exploring the countryside with his dog and shooting pheasants didn’t bother Fëanor much, as he claimed Celegorm still had plenty of years ahead of him to find his profession. Privately I thought the sooner our third son settled down as a country veterinarian the better, but there was no point in trying to force him into anything. Caranthir’s hot temper and painful shyness had been only somewhat lessened by the passing of the years, but there was no denying he had an excellent head for business; he’d made some risky investments on the stock market during university that had paid off handsomely, and Finwë kept him on retainer as something of a freelance financial consultant. Maglor, meanwhile, had been doing brilliantly ever since he’d finished music school. The comic opera he’d written for his graduation project had been picked up by a small theatre in London and had been a rousing success, and he now spent his days writing and producing new shows and touring the Continent with his violin. We saw even less of him than we did of Maedhros, though that was largely due to the fact that the theatre being what it was, our second son had essentially become nocturnal. 

Curufin, like his father before him, had excelled at boarding school and was now excelling at Oxford. He’d made an interesting assortment of friends who were just as keen on science and invention as he was, and his letters home were full of technical jargon that only his father could even begin to understand. Usually his letters would end with a scribbled note saying “Say hello to Mum and the rest for me,” which made up the bulk of my communication with my fifth son at this time. I was happy for him, but couldn’t help being a bit envious of Fëanor, who received the bulk of Curufin’s affection.

I did hear from the twins often, though it was difficult to tell how well they were doing overall. They received fairly good marks at St. Francis and excelled at all sports, but we also frequently received letters from the headmaster informing us that Amrod and Amras had been disciplined for flooding a teacher’s office or selling their classmates black-market whiskey. Considering how much trouble those two managed to get into when they were bored, I found myself praying that if they joined the Royal Navy or an archaeological expedition when they had finished school that it would be sufficiently fascinating, otherwise I feared for their future commanding officers.

 

With the boys away at school and work, Fëanor seemed to be at something of a loss. I could well understand his feelings...after all, we’d spent nearly thirty years with our children at the center of our universe, and as delightful as it was a first to have the house to ourselves we were hardly a pair of newlyweds anymore. There were times when the place was so quiet it seemed more like Finwë’s house, rather than our own usually rambunctious home. Unsurprisingly, both Fëanor and I began to more and more time focused on our work. There was no shortage of wealthy Londoners who needed a bit of classical statuary for their homes, so I was far from idle. Fëanor, however, was an entirely different matter. Ever since the twins had headed off to school, he’d devoted himself entirely to a project he referred to only as a “major breakthrough,” and by ‘92, even with everything else going on, it had turned into something of an obsession.

I knew finding out Melkor Bauglir had been released from Reading Gaol had rattled him—it had upset me as well. How could I forget nearly two decades earlier when Melkor had first approached Fëanor with one of his highly illegal business proposals? Then, as now, my husband had channelled his worries into punishingly hard work and had come out a week later having invented a new kind of egg-beater. But this time...this was worse. Fëanor didn’t sleep, he barely ate, and when I tried to talk to him he would merely mutter and scurry away. After some weeks of this strange behavior, I was growing deeply concerned. I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of my husband in days—he was even sleeping in the workshop now, and only came upstairs to fetch meals and use the lavatory. I was considering getting in touch with Father O’Flaherty, or even a doctor, for it didn’t seem as though Fëanor could go on like this without falling to pieces.

It seemed my worries were mistaken, though. On the twentieth of July, 1892 (one of the rare days when nearly all of the boys were in London), Fëanor burst into the kitchen where I was stirring a pot of porridge, joy radiating from him in a way I hadn’t seen in years.

“I’ve done it, Nellie,” he whispered, twirling me around as though we were at a ball. “I’ve finally done it. The breakthrough I’ve been waiting for...it’s happened.”

I let out a gasp of surprise. “So the project you’ve been so secretive about, for the last five years, the one that’s all but consumed you whole…”

“Finished!” Fëanor cried. “Done! It’s a  _ miracle,  _ they’re perfect, everything I hoped for. I haven’t felt this way since our children were born. I’m a  _ genius.” _

“I couldn’t be prouder of you, dear,” I laughed, patting him on the back. “But you’re being very mysterious. What have you invented that’s so perfect?”

“It’s a surprise, my darling,” said Fëanor gleefully. “I can’t say a thing about it without all the children here yet. But you’ll all know soon enough. Oh, Nell…”

I waited for him to apologize for all but disappearing for the last month, to thank me for keeping things running while he sequestered himself in his workshop. Instead, he kissed my forehead, grinning so widely I thought his face would split in two.

“Nell, it’s amazing,” he said. “This is going to change everything.”

How I wish he hadn’t been right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm really sorry it took me so long to finish this story. To make up for it, enjoy the following Cursed Image:  
> [](https://imgur.com/3JXfR46)  
> Tag urself.


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